And received the answer: Er, no?
I lie there for an hour or so, trying not to think about the most mortifying experience of my life, but without a great deal of success. (It’s like someone telling you not to think about a purple elephant. After that, it’s all you bloody can think about.)
Then my mobile rings and it’s Jackson.
Since I’ve been expecting him to ring ever since I fled the studio, I don’t immediately pounce on it. Let him wait! In fact, I might not answer it at all. He could at least have phoned to make sure I was okay.
But then my emotions get the better of me. Perhaps … perhaps he’s going to say he’s sorry and that it was all a big mistake and of course he wants to marry me.
So I pick up. My voice when I answer sounds thick with tears.
And then blow me if he doesn’t just sound like his usual cheery self – no apologetic note in his voice at all – as if I didn’t just lay my emotions on the line with practically the whole of the UK watching!
This just plunges me into even deeper gloom.
‘You didn’t miss much,’ he’s saying. ‘The programme was rubbish. Not a patch on the old Blind Date.’ As if that’s supposed to make me feel better – knowing that, instead of rushing out after me, he actually sat through the entire rest of the show and even paid attention to it!
When I remain silent, he says gently, ‘Roxy, why did you do it? In front of all those people? I don’t mean to sound harsh but did you really think the answer would be yes?’
My throat closes up. I want to end the call right then, but I suppose he deserves an answer. ‘I don’t know … maybe … you asked me to move in so I naturally thought you really cared.’
He laughs. Yes, actually laughs. ‘Of course I care, Roxy. But I only suggested you move into my place as a practical measure because you couldn’t pay the rent on Flo’s flat.’
A practical measure?
‘You’re still welcome to move in – until you get yourself another job.’
I can’t speak. My head is spinning and not in a good way.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re great, Roxy,’ he adds, piling on more humiliation. ‘But I thought we were just, you know, having a good time?’
I manage to dredge up some spirit from somewhere. ‘Jackson, could you just bugger off now and leave me alone?’
‘What about the Winter Ball on Saturday? You are still going with me?’
I laugh incredulously.
‘You’ve got your dress and everything. You’re going to be the belle of the ball,’ he says, turning on the charm. ‘Please, Roxy?’
Tears threaten to break through. I’d been so looking forward to attending the Winter Ball with Jackson. It was something he organised for his employees every year and, by all accounts, it was pretty magical. I absolutely adored the dress I’d bought …
‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘I really do care about you, Roxy.’
My throat is too choked up to answer.
So instead, I end the call.
For the next two days, my phone stays resolutely turned off as I retreat to the safety of the sofa to lick my wounds.
There’s a little pile of ‘essentials’ scattered on the floor below. Tissues. An array of used coffee mugs. Giant box of fake After Eights, kindly donated by Flo after a trip to her favourite everything-for-a-pound shop. Plus a self-help book (that’s no help whatsoever) called Moving On After Yet Another Disastrous Break-Up.
The Christmas tree I decorated with Jackson stands there in all its garish glory, unapologetic and impossible to ignore – a constant sparkly reminder of happier times.
At intervals, Flo – who’s now been fully briefed on what happened – creeps in quietly, as if there’s an unexploded bomb beneath the floorboards, and brings me messages from Jackson, who has resorted to calling on the house phone. The gist of them seems to be: Are you coming to the Winter Ball? Or should I find someone else to go with me because I’m definitely not pitching up alone. Can you call me back?
Which is all very touching but something is stopping me from phoning him back. I suppose, deep down, I don’t think his gestures are grand enough. He must know how embarrassed and devastated I am after making such a plonker of myself at the show. And worse, having my proposal – however drunken it might have been – flatly turned down. If I’d turned Jackson down like that, I’d be jumping through hoops now to make things right. A few phone calls from him don’t really cut it.
The whole thing has also made me realise that Jackson has never felt about me the way I feel about him …
On the third day, I wake up feeling more positive.
Turning on my mobile, I decide that this time, when Jackson phones, I’ll actually pick up.
I’ve had lots of time to think, and with the benefit of hindsight, I’ve concluded that it was very foolish and unfair of me to put him on the spot like that, proposing marriage in front of millions of people. No wonder the poor man said no! He must have thought he’d hooked up with a woman who was more than slightly unhinged. Maybe he still thinks that. But it hasn’t stopped him phoning and trying to talk to me.
I stay in the house by the phone. Apart from wanting to be there when it rings, to be honest I’m a bit worried about venturing out after my infamous appearance on Saturday night TV. The story of my humiliation seems to have gone a little bit viral. I’ve spotted a fair few stories online – with pictures – detailing my hideous rejection on live TV and I know I shouldn’t read them, but I can’t seem to help myself. What if people recognise me as that sad, drunk woman whose boyfriend rejected her?
Much later, tired of waiting by a phone that never rings and needing some fresh air, I nip out for a walk around the block under cover of darkness. I feel certain there’ll be a message for me on the home phone when I get back. But there isn’t and my heart sinks. Perhaps Jackson’s out of the country on business – as he often is – in which case he might phone tonight from his hotel.
By bedtime, there’s still been no word and I’m starting to feel needled. Surely he hasn’t given up on me already? I tell myself that if I hear nothing by lunchtime tomorrow, I’ll phone him. Relationships are a two-way thing, after all.
The next afternoon, I take a deep breath and make the call. But to my surprise, after five rings, it goes straight to ‘message’. Jackson normally answers immediately in a very businesslike voice, since nine times out of ten it will be an important work call. I leave a message asking him to ring me.
But then I decide I can’t sit around waiting for a call from him. That will only drive me nuts. I’ll nip out to the shops for milk and fresh supplies of chocolate. I haven’t been out properly for days and, with a bit of luck, the world will have forgotten all about my prime-time blunder on national TV.
Yes, there were probably a good few sniggers when Jackson said, Er, no?
But no one is going to actually recognise me from the telly. Not now …
With new resolve, I head for the shower. Twenty minutes later, I get wrapped up in my coat and scarf, and leave the flat, emerging – after my self-imposed hibernation – with the vulnerability of a new-born lamb into the frosty December afternoon. It’s already growing dark, which is good.
Far less chance of someone—
‘Oof.’ I collide with a couple walking past the gate and the man peers back at me.
He nudges his partner. ‘Hey, it’s her!’ he says in a loud stage whisper. ‘That woman who proposed on TV.’
‘Is it?’ The woman turns. ‘Oh, yes! God, the poor soul. Do you think she’ll ever get over it?’
‘Nah. Scarred for life, I reckon.’
And they walk on.
I stand there, staring after them, feeling about as small as it’s possible to feel. Turning, I fish out my keys to retreat back inside.
Then I stop.
The Winter Ball is just a few days away and I’d pretty much decided to tell Jackson I’d go with him, after all. What if he’s been sitting at
home, feeling as gloomy as I am, thinking it’s all over between us? Perhaps he was in a business meeting when I phoned and he hasn’t even listened to my message yet.
I should give him another chance – leave him another message telling him I’m looking forward to wearing my new dress …
The idea brings a little surge of relief at the thought that it might not, after all, be the end for Jackson and me.
The Winter Ball would be the perfect opportunity to patch things up, smooth over the catastrophe of Saturday night and get back to the way things were.
Standing there in the street I phone his number, preparing my little speech in my head. I’ll go for a bright and breezy tone, to let him know I’m back to my normal self and looking to the future …
‘Jackson’s phone,’ breathes someone in what sounds like a French accent. An alluring female voice.
An icy hand grips my heart.
A series of giggles on the other end of the phone turns into full-blown shrieks of delight.
Then, abruptly, I’m cut off.
Chapter 4
I stand there, stunned for a moment, feeling sick. My legs feel wobbly so I sit down on the wall outside the house and stare for a long time at the Christmas lights strung over the windows of the café over the road.
After a while, the lights blur into one another, but I continue to sit there with my hands thrust deep into my coat pockets, thinking about Jackson and how it was never going to work out for us anyway. What with me scared to take the relationship to the next level and Jackson being a total babe-magnet.
It was a recipe for disaster. I just couldn’t see it at the time.
I really thought that this Christmas would be different because I’d found Jackson and we’d be spending at least some of the festive season together. I’d been so confident of this, I’d even told Mum and Dad that they should book the winter Caribbean cruise they’d been wanting to go on for years because I’d be spending it with Jackson. And now, that’s what they’re doing. They leave in a couple of weeks and will be away until after New Year. So I really shot myself in the foot there!
The festive season of love and goodwill is here. And I will be all alone.
Why on earth did I imagine someone as clever and popular as Jackson could be serious about a no-hoper like me? I mean, thinking about it, what the hell have I achieved in my life so far – apart from a job at the biscuit factory?
I probably could have achieved more. But after the accident, my confidence hit rock bottom, and I’ve never really recovered. I suppose part of me still thinks I’m not good enough to try for something different.
That look on Billy’s face when he broke off our relationship has stayed with me, resolutely refusing to disappear into the mists of time. It happened eleven years ago, when I was only nineteen, yet even now I can recall – as if it happened only yesterday – that heart-stopping mix of pity and guilt in his eyes.
But isn’t it time I moved past that?
I’ve lost Jackson and now my future is an open book. A big fat question mark. Instead of living in fear, maybe I should see it as a golden opportunity to throw off the chains of the past and start living my life differently.
But am I too late, at the age of thirty, to start my life over again? To finally throw off the hang-ups that have held me back and maybe find a career that inspires me – instead of just working to pay the rent?
The first step is to get over Jackson. Because, clearly, he’s already well on the way to getting over me …
Getting up off the wall, I take a deep breath and force my legs to move in the direction of the supermarket.
I’m done with humiliating myself over Jackson Cooper.
It’s time to move on …
Arriving at the supermarket, my throat is choked with held-back tears but I’m determined not to give in to them.
I head straight for the milk, then march purposefully into the home-baking aisle in search of Betty Crocker. She makes great chocolate cake mixes. She will save me from complete despair.
Funnily enough, the last time I was here, I was also on a search for cake mix.
Our irritating next-door neighbour, Edna Hartley-Pym, had knocked on our door, requesting cakes for her home-baking stall at the church hall’s Christmas fayre. She’s a difficult woman to say no to, so I promised her a homemade chocolate cake, which got her off our doorstep nice and smartly.
I thought I’d cheat with a Betty Crocker cake mix but, to my horror, there were none to be had and the fayre was the following day. So I’m afraid I resorted to buying a Marks & Spencer concoction, roughing it up a bit in my Tupperware box to make it look like an authentic home bake.
Needless to say, Edna was well impressed.
Thankfully, the cake mix section has now been thoroughly restocked. I hover in the aisle, trying to choose between Devil’s Food cake mix and Super Moist Party Rainbow cake, eventually solving the dilemma by throwing both into the basket.
My attention is caught by a woman further along the aisle who seems to be having a problem. She’s trying to reach something on the top shelf and keeps jumping up but failing to grab it. The grunts she’s making with the effort are growing more desperate by the second, so eventually, I go over and offer to help. (Being so tall, I’m used to people asking me to reach items for them from the top shelf.)
The girl turns, dashing her dark hair out of her eyes. ‘Oh, would you? Thank you. It’s the last bag and I really need it.’ Her face is flushed with exertion. Or possibly anxiety.
‘No problem. They didn’t nickname me Beanpole at school for nothing!’ I assure her with a grin, reaching up with ease and handing her the prize – a bag of self-raising flour.
‘Oh, thank you!’ she gasps gratefully. ‘I run a catering business and, believe it or not, I’ve run out of flour.’
‘Ooh, what’s the name of your business?’ I ask.
‘Truly Scrumptious.’
‘Great name!’
‘Thanks.’ She smiles warmly. ‘It’s just me, really, although my friend, Erin, sometimes helps out. I’m baking for a children’s birthday party tomorrow so I need to get my hands on some flour. I can’t believe this is the only bag left.’
‘People must be making their Christmas cakes.’
She smiles, looking a little less flustered. ‘Yes, it’s that time, isn’t it? I’ve got twenty Christmas cakes to bake for next weekend.’ She holds out her spare hand. ‘I’m Poppy.’
We shake. ‘Roxy.’
‘Nice to meet you, Roxy. Now, I really must get back. Those fairy cakes won’t bake themselves, worse luck!’
She turns to go but, as she does, the bag of flour somehow slips out of her grasp. It falls to the ground, catching her boot buckle, which tears the bag open. The contents spill out across the floor.
Poppy stares at the mess in stunned disbelief, and I feel her pain. She looks as if she’s about to sob her heart out right then and there, in the middle of aisle number seven.
‘Have you tried the corner shop?’ I ask quickly.
She nods. ‘None left.’
‘The supermarket on Bridge Street?’
‘They’re out of flour as well, believe it or not. There’s been a problem with deliveries.’
I frown, racking my brains to come up with a solution. Poppy seems really nice. I can’t just leave her here in bits like this.
‘I’ve got flour at home that you can have,’ I say, in a burst of inspiration. ‘And I only live along the road.’
She glances at me, round-eyed and hopeful. ‘That’s so nice of you to offer, but I couldn’t possibly …’
‘No, really, it’s fine. Come on.’
After paying for my groceries, we head back along the street and Poppy tells me all about her catering company. Apparently she’s just won a contract to supply mince pies and festive gingerbread men to a local pop-up ice rink during the fortnight leading up to Christmas Day.
‘That’s brilliant,’ I say, although I can’t hel
p noticing that Poppy doesn’t seem overjoyed.
‘Well, it is. But the problem is, my friend, Erin, who normally helps out, is off to Mexico on holiday.’
‘So you’ve got to manage yourself.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’m just here.’ I indicate our blue front door and we turn in at the gate.
Poppy frowns. Then she peers at me. ‘I don’t suppose you bake?’ She smiles. ‘The fact that you’ve got flour is a promising sign.’
I laugh. ‘Oh well, the last time I made a chocolate cake—’
‘Does she bake?’ says a loud voice. ‘Oh Lord, yes!’
We swing round and there stands my neighbour, Edna, wrapped up to go out, handbag over her arm. At eighty-two, she’s a little deaf, hence the shouting.
Addressing Poppy, she says in her plummy voice, ‘Dear Roxanne baked a chocolate cake for the church hall Christmas fayre last week and all I’d say is, Nigella, eat your heart out! Soft. Moist. Simply chocolate heaven!’
She beams at me.
I laugh. ‘No, no, it was—’
‘Now, don’t be modest.’ Edna wags a finger at me. ‘It was utterly mouth-watering, believe me! My friend Celia bought it and made me try a slice because she thought it was just as good as a Marks & Spencer cake. And that’s no exaggeration!’ She taps the side of her nose at Poppy, smiles and walks off with a little wave.
I shake my head apologetically at Poppy. ‘Really, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’
‘Oh.’ Poppy’s face falls. ‘The thing is, I really need some help, otherwise this whole event is going to be a complete disaster.’ She shrugs. ‘People need mince pies at Christmastime.’
I nod solemnly. ‘And festive gingerbread men. Although shouldn’t that be ginger people these days?’
She laughs. Then her chin wobbles and her pretty face crumples. ‘Oh, God, sorry about this. It’s ridiculous, really. I mean, of course people don’t need mince pies. It’s just, if I want the business to succeed, I’ve got to nail this contract.’
I fish out a hanky, which mercifully seems unused. I can’t believe I actually have any clean ones left after my sobbing marathon of the past few days.
Second Chances at the Log Fire Cabin Page 3
